Page 18

18

Kali

I’m perched on a low bench near first base, watching the kids scatter across the makeshift diamond as they scramble to their positions. It’s Saturday morning, and the weather in Starlight Bay is perfect for baseball—crisp, sunny, with just a slight breeze to keep the heat at bay. Normally, this is my favorite part of the week: coaching these enthusiastic little players, sharing tips I’ve picked up over the years. But today, my heart isn’t fully in it.

It’s not because I’m unhappy—far from it. In fact, things with Ripley have been amazing these past few weeks. We finally told Juniper we’re officially together, and the way her eyes lit up was pure magic. She raced around the living room whooping, “We’re a real family!” and jumped into my arms, nearly toppling me over. Every time I think about it, warmth floods my chest.

But right now, I’m distracted because Ripley has a day game, and I couldn’t be there. And Juniper’s with me instead of cheering on her dad. Once I wrap up here, we plan to drive over to the ballpark to catch the tail end of his game. Ripley was bummed, but we both figured Juniper would have fun helping me with the other kids.

I glance over to where she’s standing with a small cluster of players, explaining the importance of bending their knees when fielding. She’s wearing her purple T-shirt and cap, her cheeks flushed from the excitement of being “Coach Juniper” for the day. My heart squeezes at the sight. She’s so proud to be helping, so thrilled to have a special role.

“All right, kids!” I call, standing up from the bench. “Let’s reset for one more drill before we wrap. Remember to keep your eyes on the ball and?—”

“Kali!” Juniper’s panicked shout stops me cold. My gaze snaps to her just in time to see a little Caleb swinging a foam bat—except it’s not a foam bat. He somehow grabbed a heavier practice bat we keep in the back. The kid is mid-swing when Juniper steps forward to demonstrate the stance.

Everything happens in a blink. The bat drops, and Juniper trips over it. She tries to catch her fall, but she yelps as her arm hits the ground. The world slows, and my stomach twists with dread.

“Oh god. Juniper!” I sprint over, my heart hammering so loud it drowns out the startled gasps of the other kids. Juniper is curled on her side, tears streaming down her cheeks, her face contorted in pain.

I drop to my knees beside her, careful not to jostle her arm. “Sweetie, it’s okay,” I murmur, pushing hair away from her flushed forehead. She’s whimpering, clutching her arm protectively.

“Kali,” she sobs. “It hurts. It really hurts.”

My chest constricts so tightly I can barely breathe. The other kids and a few parents hover anxiously, unsure what to do. Instinct kicks in—I need to get her to the hospital. If Ripley were here, he’d scoop her up in a heartbeat, but he’s on the mound somewhere, totally unreachable.

“It’s okay, Junebug,” I manage, my voice trembling. “We’re gonna get you checked out. I promise.”

With the help of one of the parents, we gently get Juniper to her feet. She’s guarding her arm, and my panic spikes. I suspect it’s broken, or at least badly sprained. I instruct the parents to wrap up the session, stammering out apologies, then guide Juniper to my car as quickly as possible. She cries softly the whole ride, her face pale, eyes wide with shock. I’m practically vibrating with fear and guilt, white-knuckling the steering wheel.

At the emergency room, the receptionist takes one look at Juniper’s swollen arm and ushers us into the pediatric ward. Nurses hustle around us, asking me questions I’m barely able to process. I hold Juniper’s hand, trying to keep it steady while an X-ray technician explains that they need images to confirm the fracture.

Once they whisk her away for the X-ray, I fish out my phone. My heart sinks—it’s useless to try calling Ripley mid-game. He’s probably in the bullpen or on the mound, his phone stashed in a locker. Hattie, I think, pulling up her contact info with shaky fingers.

She picks up on the second ring. “Kali? Everything okay?”

I swallow hard, tears burning in my eyes. “No. It’s Juniper. She’s hurt. It’s her arm. It’s probably broken. We’re at the ER. I can’t reach Ripley—he’s in the game and?—”

“I’m on my way,” Hattie says without hesitation, her voice steady. “Stay with Juniper. I’ll be there soon.”

The call ends, and I slump into a plastic chair in the waiting area. My gaze darts around: bright white walls, the faint smell of antiseptic, a child crying softly in a room nearby. Anxiety creeps up my spine. I can’t believe this happened on my watch. She was my responsibility, and I let her get hurt. The guilt piles on until it’s suffocating.

A nurse finally leads me to the exam room where Juniper is sitting on the bed, her arm in a temporary brace. She’s still teary, but she brightens a bit when she sees me. “Kali,” she says, voice trembling, “I’m really scared.”

I choke on a sob, rushing to her side. “I’m so sorry, sweet girl,” I whisper, stroking her hair. “I should’ve been paying closer attention. This is my fault.”

She tries to respond, but the door opens and Hattie steps in, breathless. Relief clashes with another wave of guilt in my chest. Hattie crosses to Juniper, eyes wide with worry. “Hey, Junebug. You okay?” Her voice is gentle, soothing, as she examines the brace.

I can barely stand there. My heart’s pounding, and the guilt is like a weight on my shoulders. I step back, letting Hattie take the lead. Something in me snaps—I can’t handle the sight of Juniper’s tear-streaked face, can’t shake the thought that I failed.

Hattie glances at me, concern filling her gaze. “Kali, it’s okay. Accidents happen.”

I swallow a lump the size of a baseball. “I… I should’ve prevented it. I was supposed to keep her safe. How can I be anything like a stepmom if I—” My voice cracks, and I can’t finish.

“Stop,” Hattie murmurs, stepping toward me. “You didn’t do this. It’s an accident. Juniper doesn’t blame you.”

But I blame myself. My throat tightens, and I can’t bear the thought of standing there, feeling so helpless, worthless. I back up, practically stumbling for the door. “I’m sorry,” I choke out, tears spilling onto my cheeks. “I just… um, I can’t be here right now.”

“Kali, wait!” Hattie calls after me, voice tinged with sympathy.

I rush into the hallway, ignoring the stares of nurses and visitors. My mind races. I love her, and I love Ripley, but look at what I’ve done. I fumble through the exit, tears blurring my vision. The sharp smell of disinfectant follows me out into the parking lot. My lungs constrict as I slide into my car and slam the door, my hands trembling on the steering wheel.

How can I face Ripley after this? I can’t protect his daughter. I’m supposed to be stepping into some kind of motherly role, yet I let this happen. With a strangled sob, I turn the key in the ignition and speed away from the hospital, tears streaming down my face. Every mile to my apartment feels like failure amplified.

By the time I reach my building, my chest is heaving with suppressed sobs. I dash inside and collapse onto the couch, burying my face in my hands. Hot tears soak my palms, and I can’t stop the wave of self-loathing that floods me. I’m a horrible person. I don’t deserve this family, or the love they’ve given me.

I curl into myself, trembling from head to toe. The image of Juniper’s tearful face loops in my mind, and I break into another choked sob. There’s no escaping the guilt. I can only hope that somehow, Ripley and Juniper might forgive me for being so careless. Because right now, I’m not sure I can forgive myself.